Conclusions
by Jadesfire
Summary: Casestyle fic. House has taken on three cases at once. Is he just showing off? Wilson thinks there might be another reason...
1. Prologue

Author's Note: This is a revamped, restructured and re-edited version of a story that had ground to a shuddering halt. All medical cases are from journals and textbooks onlineand actuallyhappened (including the diagnostic timescale!) butmistakes in detail are mine.

Timing: Between "Clueless" and "Safe".

**Prologue**

_The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.  
_Sherlock Holmes, The Hound of the Baskervilles

The code had been called four minutes before House got to the room. He watched from the doorway as Chase called instructions to nurses and Cameron kept on at the CPR. There was always a controlled mania to these scenes, each person knowing exactly what they were meant to be doing. House flattened himself against the wall as more nurses hurried in, one relieving Cameron at the bed.

The patient had been intubated for three days, and hadn't opened her eyes for two. She looked so pale compared to when she was brought in, all the tubes and wires making her look tiny and fragile. As the sea of people washed around her, fighting to bring her back to life, she seemed almost serene, totally and mercifully unaware of what was happening.

House hadn't met her before she'd closed her eyes for the last time, but he could imagine her smiling and laughing with her family, who were now clinging to each other in the waiting room. The children had been crying as he came past, responding to the fears of the grown-ups. He could almost see the slim hand now lying on the bedcovers reaching out to comfort them through their tears.

Chase called out the charge. As the others stood back, he pressed the paddles to the woman's chest, making her body arc as the electricity surged through her. There was a momentary lull, all eyes fixed on the heart monitor. It remained flat, so Chase upped the charge and applied them again. Her body jolted as though in some strange dance, her head just falling to one side as she landed back on the bed. Chase called it again, although even House had caught the change in mood from the team. He didn't run many codes nowadays but he could sense it in the room. Sometimes you knew you were going to get a patient through, despite everything. Sometimes, despite everything, you just couldn't.

When there was still nothing, Chase began to charge again, not yet willing to give up.

"Chase." House didn't raise his voice, and he wasn't sure that the younger man had been aware of his presence before that moment. Cameron certainly hadn't, as she jerked her head round in surprise. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her face was a blank mask. She had enough pride to hold back the tears for now, but House knew they would come later.

Everything had stopped. Only the constant tone of the heart rate monitor filled the room, until a nurse reached up to silence it. After a frozen moment, House took half a step forwards, glancing up at the clock on the wall.

"Time of death, two twenty-four a.m.," he said. Chase was still looking at him, face caught between defiance and acceptance, while Cameron was looking down at the bed, her hand resting on that of the dead woman. The nurses were already moving, clearing the debris from the code and silently moving out of the way, sensing that the three doctors needed a minute. Still holding Chase's eye, House said, "Cameron, go tell the family."

"I'll do it," Chase said, automatically, but Cameron shook her head.

"No, it's alright." She shot a last pained look at House as she left the room. He slid the door shut behind her, still not looking away from Chase. No words passed between them, the younger man dropped his head, leaning over the bed.

"I should have seen it." His voice was muffled, chin pressing against his chest.

"Ah, the arrogance of the young." House shook his head. "You should have. So should I, Cameron, Foreman, her own doctor, her husband, her mother and that idiot quack she went to see. Not to mention that she should have noticed something herself. We all should have seen it. So yes. You should have seen it."

Chase looked up, face flushed. "Are you saying this is my fault?"

"I'm saying it's all of our faults. Don't worry, if you want blame, you'll get your fair share of it. If they decide to sue someone, I'll make sure your name's at the top of the list." House's voice was unsympathetic. "Now go have a shower and get home. I want you back in here on time tomorrow morning. No excuses" He could feel the younger doctor's eyes on his back as he pulled the door open. Ignoring the sensation, he glanced down the corridor towards the waiting room. Cameron was standing in the doorway so that he could only see her in profile. He could also hear the sobs, and the higher cries of children who knew something had happened but were too young to really understand. It was a terrible sound.

Turning his back, House limped towards the elevators at the other end of the corridor, tapping various pockets until he heard the comforting rattle of the Vicodin bottle. After a moment's consideration, he decided that some of the half-empty bottle of scotch in his office would wash them down nicely. It wasn't like there was any point in going home and pretending to sleep. He wondered if Chase would similarly self-medicate tonight, and hoped the boy wouldn't overdo alcohol as a sedative. He'd meant it about being on the time the next morning. After all, House wasn't planning on going home at all.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_Work is the best antidote to sorrow  
_Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Empty House

It had been a while since House had spent the night at the office. He'd spent a fair few working there, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd deliberately slept on the comfy chair. Not that there had been much of a night nor much comfort. Even he had more sense than to tackle the motorcycle ride home on a cocktail of Vicodin, scotch and exhaustion, and the chair had seemed like the best option. Now he was wishing he'd broken into Wilson's office and slept on the couch. His leg didn't like either, but his back would probably have preferred to be horizontal.

Despite the drug/alcohol mix, he'd woken with a start at six, and stayed in denial until seven when an almighty cramp and growing headache had forced him awake. After a few minutes of massage, deep breathing and swearing, he persuaded his leg to uncramp enough to get him down to the locker room for a shower. He was going to look like hell today; he didn't have to smell like it as well.

In the elevator on the way back to his office, he fished out his current bottle of Vicodin, remembering only when he heard the lack of a rattle that he'd meant to get a refill the previous day. He knew he'd taken one too many the night before, also knowing that without it he wouldn't have made it through the night on the chair. There would be time to get more later on, his clinic duty due to start in a couple of hours. If Cuddy caught him anywhere near the clinic, she might start remembering all the duties he'd missed last week, and since he intended to miss more this week, he didn't want to jog her memory. He'd take the pain over that at the moment.

Someone – probably Cameron – had put the lights on in the diagnostics lounge. Only she would think 8 am was a good time to start work. Pointedly not looking through the glass, House pushed open the door to his office, stowing his bag under the desk and trying to ignore the smell of fresh coffee. One look at his desk had confirmed his guess at the identity of the earlybird. A pile of patient files sat in the middle of the mess, clearly inviting him to take a look.

It was an invitation that he had no trouble in refusing. Still moving carefully, only too aware that the last Vicodin had been too long ago, he began clearing up the debris from the previous week's work. Reference books went back on the shelf, CDs and records stacked up again, empty glasses and mugs were gathered together for someone else to wash up. He managed to drag out the tidying for half an hour, arranging and rearranging the CDs and shuffling unread papers around the looming pile of files.

Chase and Foreman arrived together, just as House reached breaking point; the pain and the smell of fresh coffee were driving him crazy. He scooped up the pile of files and went through into the lounge.

"No." He dropped the files onto Cameron's desk and headed to the coffee machine.

"You haven't even opened them," she protested.

"Doesn't matter. The answer's still no."

"The amazing Doctor House." Foreman lifted his hands towards his boss. "Diagnosing lack of illness from the outside of patient files."

"Still no." House added sugar to his coffee and began to make his way back across the room. Cameron intercepted him, standing between him and door of his office. Sighing, House stopped, leaning on his cane. "If you're bored, I'm sure Cuddy could use more help in the clinic. Or you could write something fascinating and get it published." He noticed the flicker in her expression and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Or maybe you've already thought of that."

"I just think we should treat some of these people." She gestured to the pile of folders. "I went through and weeded out the ones I thought you'd find interesting."

"Well that was your first mistake. I mean, just look at them." Cameron did so, then looked back at him, expression blank. House tutted. "They're all blue," he said. "I hate blue folders. Now move." He gestured with his coffee cup.

"That's the best you can come up with?" Cameron asked, holding her ground. "You hate blue?"

"No, I said I hate blue folders. And since when have you been so in love with them? Don't you think the red ones will be hurt by your rejection?"

Not rising to the sarcastic tone, Cameron folded her arms and took half a step backwards, putting her back to his office door, making it clear that she had no intention of moving, even as he took a step forwards, looming over her.

"Just read them," she said, lifting her chin to look him in the eye.

"You may do crazy things when you're on the rebound from a patient's death. I don't."

Chase made a sound that was probably a muffled laugh. "You don't need the excuse."

"Thank you for that." House narrowed his eyes, considering the options and noticing Cameron mirroring his expression. He wondered if she'd copy him if he stuck out his tongue, and was just about to try when an idea occured to him.

"What's it worth to you?" he asked. "My consultation?"

"Worth?" Cameron repeated, momentarily confused.

"If I do this for you, what will you do for me?"

That got him an actual laugh from Chase – always an appreciative audience – and a frown from Cameron. Enjoying her growing annoyance, House put down his coffee and plucked the top file from her desk.

"One of these," he waved the file, "for one of these." Leaning his cane against the desk, he dug into his jacket pocket and produced the empty Vicodin bottle, shaking it under Cameron's nose.

She held his eyes for a moment, weighing up the options.

"Deal," she said at last, taking the bottle. "But you first."

"What? Don't you trust me? You trot on down to the pharmacy and I'll just take this back to my office."

"No way." Cameron didn't move. "Read it first. Then you can have your fix."

Muttering about women scorned, House perched on the edge of the desk to skim read the file. After a few lines, he glanced up again.

"I'm reading, already. Go charm the dragon at the gate of the drug palace."

"We'll keep an eye on him." Foreman told her, bringing his own mug of coffee to the central table and pulling a chair round to face House.

"Yeah, and we all know how well that usually works." House took a mouthful of coffee and glared at Cameron over the rim of his mug. "It's kind of hard to think when you're in pain. Short-circuits the brain, don't you know."

Giving in, Cameron headed for the door.

"Don't let him out of here til he's done," she said to Foreman as she passed.

When she was out of sight, House grinned at the two men

"So now she's gone, do you want to swap dirty stories or just get right on with the belching contest?"

"You've got a file to read." Foreman picked up the newspaper and pointedly shook it open. Chase was already apparently engrossed in his crossword. Left no choice, House carried on reading the patient file, sipping coffee and holding the handle of his mug so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He resisted the desire to put the mug down and grip his leg. Not only would it not really help, he didn't want the others to know how bad it was. It would have been nice if the file had been something suitably complicated and distracting, but he had already spotted what was missing, so all he could do now was sit and wait for Cameron to return bearing gifts.

She did so after about ten minutes of agonised waiting, and not only for House. Lacking other distractions, he'd begun whistling, firstly under his breath, then with increasing volume and annoyance. Neither of the others had said anything, but he'd chosen a suitably repetitive tune that had to be driving them crazy by now. All three looked up eagerly as Cameron came through the door, to her obvious amusement.

She stood out of arm's reach, holding the small orange bottle between thumb and forefinger and giving House an expectant look. Pride getting the better of pain for a moment, he picked up his cane and limped to the white board, not worrying that his steps were more dragging than usual.

"So, Cameron has thrust upon us a sixty-three year old woman. Not a pleasant mental image but there you are." He began writing up the list of symptoms.

_Vomiting  
__Hyponatremia – plasma sodium 127 mmol/L  
__Fever 38º  
__Confusion & Lethargy_

"Admitted two weeks ago with a four week history of vomiting and nausea," he said. "Went on too long for food poisoning, no gastoentiritis. Alert and conscious but now showing signs of confusion and disorientation. Some genius noticed that she's dehydrated – wonder why that could be – so they've got her on saline and antiemetics. Probably the same genius decided it might be an idea to do some basic labs."

Down the other side of the board he wrote:

_Blood pressure 130/76  
__Cortisol 799 nmol/L  
__White count 13  
__CRP 10 mg/L_

"Chest and abdominal exam all normal, full autoimmune profile and normal thyroid function." In the silence, he became aware of the expressions on his subordinates' faces. "What?" he asked.

"You actually read the file." Cameron sounded surprised.

"You can remember all of that, and have no idea what her name is?" Foreman asked.

"Well from her creatinine count I'd guess Dorothy, but don't take my word for it." House turned to Chase. "Don't you have an oar to stick in at this point? Or does your silence indicate that paddles and creeks are more your style at the moment?"

Chase frowned at the board. "You said they'd done basic labs. What about a CT or MRI?"

"Well spotted." House unhooked his cane from the board and began pacing. "When her fever went up they did a CT. Periventricular patchy white matter changes but no features of raised intracranial pressure or space occupying lesion."

"SIADH?" suggested Foreman.

"Sodium level's still too high," Cameron pointed out. "Chronic pancreatitis?"

"No abdominal pain." House told her. His pacing had brought him round behind her and Foreman. "Think about it. What's missing from this picture?"

"Since you can obviously see the invisible, why don't you tell us?" Foreman asked.

"Well, I would, but, you know, my leg really hurts." House gave an exaggerated sigh and turned wide, innocent eyes on Cameron. "It's so distracting when that happens."

Not fooled for a second, but giving in anyway, Cameron handed him the bottle. As he unscrewed the top with one hand, trying not to show how much he was shaking or how relieved he was, he used his cane to point at the white board.

"Nowhere in that impressive list of statistics do I see the letters C, S or even F. Which means they haven't done a lumbar puncture. So you'll have to, won't you?"

"And what are we looking for?" Chase asked. "What are you expecting to find?"

"What's wrong with her, I hope." House dry swallowed a tablet. "And while one of you does that, the others can get her started on antibiotics for meningitis. Broad spectrum until we know exactly which of the coccobacilli we're dealing with."

"Meningitis?" Foreman was sceptical. "No rash, no stiff neck, no light sensitivity. Unless there's something you haven't written down there?"

"Damn posters." When Foreman gave him a blank look, House went on. "They've got everyone thinking you need all the symptoms all the time. Chronic meningitis creeps up on you more slowly, particularly if you're well on in years. And you don't show the holy trinity of fever, neck pain and lethargy, although she's got two of the three now. Just for that, you can go do the LP and you," he turned to Chase, "go get her started on antibiotics."

"And me?" Cameron asked.

"You brought me treats." House shook the Vicodin bottle at her. "So I've got a treat for you. The post hasn't been opened yet."

He left them exchanging annoyed looks and retreated behind the TV in his office. Although he knew it was really too soon, he fancied he could feel the narcotic starting work. Thank God for the placebo effect. Closing his eyes, he let the sounds of General Hospital wash over him.

Cameron brought him in the post at ten. She also brought in the pile of folders that he had not accidentally left on her desk.

"No," House said, without looking up.

"You haven't even looked at them."

"Don't need to. No." He was apparently fascinated by the journal article he was reading, although he'd run his eyes over the first paragraph four times without really taking it in. He hadn't been boasting when he said he read Portuguese, but it took more concentration than he had at the moment.

Cameron put the files on his desk anyway.

"I've put a note on the ones I thought were particularly interesting."

"You usually do. And you're usually wrong. Is "_esquerdo_" the right or the left?"

"I have no idea. This came for you." She put an envelope on top of the pile of folders. "It's marked 'personal' so I thought-"

"Great, thanks, you've been a lot of help. I think it's the left." Without really looking, House put out a hand and pulled the envelope towards him. As he did so, he rested the journal on his knee and brought his cane up with his other hand. It caught the bottom of the pile of files, pushing them off the edge of the desk. "Ooops." House still didn't look up, but he knew Cameron would roll her eyes, possibly fold her arms then leave. He heard the door close behind her.

House's mind was still mostly on the journal article, although he was really going to have to get a Portuguese dictionary- right now, he wasn't sure whether the "_coração_" was the heart or the liver. Giving up, he had a closer look at the envelope. It was addressed _Gregory House – Personal_ with the hospital's address underneath. Normally patients addressed things to Doctor House; hardly anyone used his first name. As he slit it open, he made a mental note that 'personal' was the only instruction that would keep Cameron out of his post. Interesting but irrelevant – there was never going to be time when he was more concerned about the mail than she was.

The envelope contained a photocopy of a set of medical records, wrapped in a covering letter. Glancing at it, House unfolded the records and began to read. He'd just about reached the bottom of the first page when Wilson stuck his head round the door.

"You want some coffee?"

"No," House said, without looking up, "I want you to come in and have a look at this."

"You're asking for a consult?"

"If you're James Wilson the oncologist, then sure. If you're just his annoying sidekick, I'll have to wait for the real thing."

Rolling his eyes, Wilson came and accepted the offered papers, taking a seat as he began to read.

"I saw Chase. He told me about Rachel. I'm sorry."

"Yes." House began to twirl his cane between his fingers, not looking at Wilson. "If her damn doctor had ever even opened a medical textbook we might have stood some chance. As it was, a band-aid would have been about as much use as we were."

"It wasn't Chase's fault." Wilson looked up from the file. "Don't take it out on them."

"I didn't. No more than usual."

"And if you don't turn up for your clinic shift, Cuddy will just come looking for you."

"Not if I can find somewhere really good to hide." He brought the cane down on the ground with a thud, leaning forwards onto it. "So are you going to give me a consult or are you going to carry on trying to find cunning ways of making me confess my irrational guilt over losing a patient?"

"Are you feeling irrational guilt?"

House dropped his eyes, looking at his hands.

"No more than usual."

Wilson nodded, understanding, then turned his attention back to the file.

"From the looks of this, I'd have to agree with her other doctors' opinions."

"Yeah, and we all know how often they're right."

"Since when do you care?" Wilson closed the file and looked at his friend.

"I care deeply," House said in mock offence. "I'm hurt to think that you'd think otherwise. Her daughter sent me the most charming letter. She even cared enough to handwrite it. I can't ignore something like that."

"You're not going to tell me the real reason, are you?" Wilson asked.

"Have I ever deceived you before?"

"Yes."

"About a patient?"

Wilson thought for a moment.

"Three times in the last five months."

"And that's a reason for you not to even look at this? I'm shocked." House shook his head. "And to think they asked for the best."

Wilson wouldn't walk into that one. "Meaning you."

"In general, yes. But since I'm not the oncologist, in this case, you get to be the best. You go girl."

"And?" Wilson narrowed his eyes, watching House suspiciously.

"And what?" House asked, with his best innocent look.

Wilson leant back in his chair. "Let's have it."

"What?" House was apparently genuinely puzzled.

"Let's have the sarcastic half sentence that completely negates what's gone before. The best if you want an over-earnest schoolboy in a labcoat. The best oncologist in his office."

"Ah, my reputation goes before me." House's half-smile drooped and he shook his head. "There's not much I can do, is there? Except refer it to you. Which I'm doing."

Wilson nodded. "Thanks." The compliment acknowledged, he tapped the papers. "Do you want to be kept up to date on this?"

"Are you kidding? If I wanted to keep working on it, why would I have given it to you?"

"Good point. I'll see what I can do. You," Wilson added, standing up, "don't forget your clinic duty later on."

"And today is going to be different from every other clinic duty and actually see me turn up on time, ready to work, because…?"

"Then you know that some damn doctor isn't going to misdiagnose and land you with another dead body."

"Ouch, a low blow there from the nice doctor." House thrust his cane between his arm and his body, jolting as though he'd been stabbed. "I'm wounded to the core and shall rush to do my duty of removing inanimate objects from inappropriate orifices."

"Go to the clinic. I'll make the call. Unless you've changed your mind and want to do it?" Wilson paused at the door, holding out the file.

"Blackmailer."

"You bring out the best in me." Wilson let the door shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_You know my methods. Apply them!  
_Sherlock Holmes, Hound of the Baskervilles

Cameron arrived early again the following morning. The lab results had come back to confirm House's diagnosis and it would be a few days until they knew if the antibiotics were working. Still, there was always something to be done. To her surprise, House was already in, sitting eating cereal and holding an amicable argument with Wilson. Automatically, Cameron checked her watch to make sure that it hadn't stopped and that she wasn't, in fact, late.

"You can't know that," Wilson was saying. "It could indicate anything."

"It could, but it doesn't." House acknowledged Cameron with a nod and said through his next mouthful of cereal, "No-one buys a shirt like that without malice aforethought."

"Maybe he's color-blind," Wilson suggested. "Or maybe he just has really bad taste."

"Nope. Fifty says he's doing the candy-striper. His wife just wants to make sure it gets broken off. That's why she got him the shirt." House finished his breakfast by lifting the bowl and tipping the last dregs of milk into his mouth. Long past being disconcerted by his bad habits, Cameron took off her coat and went over to the white board. It was covered in words and phrases.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A case. I'd offer you breakfast," House added, "but Wilson ate the last of the cheerios. Feel free to make coffee though."

"You actually took one of those cases? I thought you weren't interested."

"But you were basing that conclusion on my total indifference up to that point. That was your first mistake. Actually, after _someone_ dropped the files all over my floor, _someone_ had to pick them up again and that _someone_ noticed something interesting about one of them."

Cameron paused by the coffee machine. "_You_ dropped the files on the floor."

"Look, we're not into finger pointing around here," House said, loftily. "What's done is done. The important thing is to get the patient better, right?"

"Riiight." Torn between being surprised and being pleased, Cameron settled for being suspicious. "Because you care so much about them."

"You know," House said to Wilson, "that's the second time in two days that someone's accused me of being uncaring. I'm starting to become paranoid."

"No need," Wilson told him. "You're not paranoid if it's true."

"I'm not sure that made sense," House mused. "Shouldn't you be off making someone's hair fall out or something?"

Ignoring both of them, Cameron was reading the white board. "You're doing a differential based on symptoms including flying toast, exploding tables and," she tilted her head, "signing walls?"

"Singing whales," House corrected. "Wilson wrote that one. And I'm not doing a differential becauseI've done the differential. They're just there for the laughs."

"Well they don't sound muchlike symptoms," Cameron said.

"They're not. They are the ramblings of a twenty-two year old woman with apparent sudden onset schizophrenia and a fever."

"Apparent schizophrenia?" Cameron brought three coffees to the table, dropping two packets of sugar alongside House's.

"Diagnosis of exclusion. I found something they hadn't bothered to look for."

Cameron thought she remembered the case from the selection of files she'd given him the previous day. "They checked everything. That's why we ended up with it. And I don't remember seeing fever as one of the symptoms."

"She only developed that last night. Which is what gave the game away." House looked particularly smug.

"You visited her last night?" Cameron couldn't hide her surprise.

"He spent the night in the psych ward," Wilson told her. "Not before time."

"If you two are done, maybe you might be interested in what was actually wrong with her. You," House waved his stirrer in Cameron's direction, spraying Wilson with coffee, "get an extra brownie point for this one, even if it did turn out to be simple to treat. Only the third recorded case. Or it will be when the labs get back."

"Case of what? If it's so rare-"

"Rare and interesting. Meningoencephalitis caused by chlamidiae pneumonia infection. Since none of you read Portuguese, you wouldn't know about the first case, but the second was in English, so shame on you. I might have to take back that brownie point."

"Wow," Cameron said. "You took a case, visited a patient and almost managed to say thank you. Who are you and what have you done with Doctor House?"

"There goes another point. You'll be in the negative at this rate." House glared at her. "Did I finish all my dictations yet?"

"No, I finished them," Cameron replied evenly. "Yesterday. And all your charting and your correspondence."

"You could go dust something then? Washing-up?" He pushed his cereal bowl towards her. "Or I'm sure Wilson could provide you with a dying kid if you just want to hold someone's hand."

"What about the rest of the consults?" she asked. "Do they just get ignored because they weren't on the top of the pile?"

"Pile?" House looked blank. "What pile? There was a pile?" He held his spoon up in front of his nose, moving it backwards and forwards, making his eyes cross. "You just have to realise, there is no spoon."

Coming in at this point, Chase showed impressively little surprise at his boss's statement.

"Morning," he said to the world in general and headed straight to the coffee machine. Despite the interruption, Cameron wasn't going to give up.

"If they're all this simple to you, they won't take you more than a day to get through."

"True," House conceded, "but where would the fun be in that?"

"Fun? You're talking about people's lives!"

"Aren't we always?" House dropped the spoon in his cereal bowl and looked at her. "If you think they're so simple, why don't you give a consult?"

"They asked for you."

"I didn't ask who they asked for. They asked for a diagnostician, which you're supposed to be. Hell, you could even have signed my name, since I told you not to make my 'G's so girly." He leaned closer to her. "So either you don't want to because you're scared of the responsibility, or because you're scared that you're not as good a doctor as I am. Which is it?"

Cameron was saved from having to reply by Foreman's entrance. He must have heard the argument from down the corridor, because he stood for a moment, taking in the scene. Then he said,

"I can go out and come back in again if it helps."

"Not at all. Come join the party." House grabbed his cane from the table, narrowly missing Wilson's ear, and headed towards his office. "Have I got a surprise for you guys or what?"

"Or what, I hope." Chase muttered, cradling his mug as he leant against the back of a chair.

House was back after a few seconds, clutching three blue patient files which he threw onto the central table. "Any complaints afterwards, see Cameron. She's the one who wants me to take more cases, so surprise! I decided to take on three."

"Three?" Chase repeated, eyeing the files suspiciously.

"Tres, trois, drei, tre, drie, sahn, san, pingasut, tatu, thalatha." House rolled his eyes. "Three. Three of them, three of you, which by my math makes it one each."

"You're giving us your cases?" Foreman asked.

"Technically, I'm making them your cases. I'll be supervising, of course. But I think you'll find I'm a hands-off kind of guy when it comes to these things. And just to keep it interesting…" He produced three envelopes from an inside pocket.

"Prizes for the winners?" Foreman asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope, I'm far too cheap for that, just ask Wilson. No, these are my diagnoses for each of the three cases. Purely based on the case files."

"You already know what's wrong with them, but you want us to go diagnose them?" Cameron asked.

"Why not? I could be wrong." House's tone made it clear how likely he thought that was. "You'll have so much more information than me; just think of all the bright and shining new data you can collect."

Foreman shrugged, and came over to the table, pulling the file with his name on it out from under Chase and Cameron's.

"What are you going to be doing while we're doing your work for you?" He asked.

"You always do my work for me," House said. "You guys run tests, hold the patient's hands, break into the houses. I do the thinking. So just for this once, you get to do both – how exciting is that?"

Chase looked up from his own file. "And meanwhile you'll be doing – what exactly?"

"I'll be around if any of you want a consult. But no cheating."

"You either," Cameron said. "Give the envelopes to Doctor Wilson." She turned a page in the file, only looking up when House replied,

"Don't you trust me?"

"Not an inch."

House shrugged. "Fine. Very sensible." He handed the envelopes over to Wilson and gave his team an expectant look. "Well? These people aren't going to cure themselves, are they? Hop to it!"

He watched them go, exchanging sceptical looks as they did so.

"Don't you ever get sick of messing with their heads?" Wilson asked.

"Not really, when there are so many different ways of doing it. Keeps me fresh." House tapped his cane on the ground a few times, looking out into the corridor. Wilson knew he was leading up to something, and wasn't at all inclined to help. Still without looking, House said, "Did you make that phone call yesterday?"

Momentarily thrown, Wilson answered honestly without thinking. "Yes." His eyes narrowed. "Why do you care?"

"I don't." House said quickly. "That's why I passed it on to you, remember? Just wanted to check that you're actually doing your job."

"_You're_ checking that _I'm_ working? Did I miss the end of the world last night? Why do you want to know?"

"Why not?" House retorted, starting to retreat into his office. "I'm allowed to take an interest in patients, aren't I?"

"Allowed, yes. Inclined, no. What's really going on?" Following his friend, Wilson leant against the doorway, arms folded.

"I'm just following up. Being thorough. It's what you and Cuddy are always on at me to do, isn't it?And I thought you'd be pleased." House began to leaf through a stack of papers on his desk as though looking for something.

"You don't just follow up on things, House," Wilson said. "You get interested or you ignore them. So you're interested. Either there's something in the case file that you saw and I didn't – and since you referred it to me in the first place, I'm guessing it's not that – or there's something else going on here."

"Astonishing deductions. Where the hell is it?" He pushed past Wilson, almost knocking him over and checking the bookshelves in the lounge before returning to his office. "Ah, there it is." He retrieved the iPod from the armchair and dropped it into the docking station. "How do you come up with them?"

"Do you think that if you keep avoiding the question I'm going to give up and go away?"

"Will you? Cos I can keep this up all day if you like." House was apparently occupied with choosing a track.

Wilson sighed, deciding he'd had enough. He'd half turned away, when a thought struck him. Turning back, he scanned the debris on House's desk, looking for what definitely wasn't there. A glance at Cameron's desk confirmed his suspicion.

"You got rid of the files," he said, not able to keep the surprise from his voice.

"What files?" House asked, not really listening.

"The files that Cameron brought you. They're not on your desk, not on her desk. Not on your bookcase. You read them, didn't you?"

"Hmm?"

"Oh drop the innocent act. It doesn't convince anyone. You haven't been home in two nights; you've solved two cases and been through at least twelve more. Three of them you've passed on to your team. How else could you have selected them?" Wilson came to stand in front of the desk, trying to get House to look at him. "What's going on?"

"You've got this far in your brilliant reasoning, don't tell me you can't go all the way." House didn't look up. "There's got to be a joke in there somewhere but that would just be crude," he added.

"Rachel Callings' death hit you harder than you expected, didn't it?" Wilson said quietly. "Work as an antidote to grief?"

"Trying to absolve myself of guilt, you mean?" House shrugged. "Maybe I just felt like a late night read. Since when has my working been a bad thing? You and Cuddy are always on at me to do more of it, although frankly I've never seen the point."

"It's ok to be angry at the death of a patient."

"Is that how you comfort all your nurses?" House said nastily. "Or do you use more direct methods?"

It was a cheap shot but it worked. Wilson shook his head, giving in. "Just don't work too hard. You might have an allergic reaction or something." He'd got as far as the door when he put his hand in his pocket and stopped dead. "Er, House?"

"Wilson?" House had swivelled his chair round to face the window.

"You want to give me back the envelopes?"

"Envelopes? Oh, these envelopes." House held them up, making Wilson come and get them. "You should take better care of other people's things."

"Most people don't have a friend who picks their pockets." Wilson double-checked that he had his wallet, keys and ID card before actually leaving the office. When he glanced over his shoulder, House was still sitting with his back to the window, the room full of the sounds of Pink Floyd.

Cuddy heard the beginnings of the argument from halfway down the hallway. None of the participants were actually shouting yet, but she judged she had about a minute and a half before they started. She rounded the corner at speed and was momentarily taken aback not to see House. Instead, his three Fellows were glaring at each other and getting in the way of the nurses outside the CT room.

"What the hell's going on here?" Reckoning she could match them glare for glare, Cuddy gestured to the files they were holding.

"We all need to use the CT scanner," Cameron explained.

"And for this you have a shouting match in the corridor. Do as House says, not as he does. And not as he says, most of the time." She herded the group to one side. "Who has the most urgent case?"

"That's the problem," Foreman said. "We all think we do."

"Give me the files. Come on, hand them over." Ignoring the mutinous looks, Cuddy flicked the first one open. "You're supposed to curb House's adolescent tendencies, not imitate them. Ok, who has the fourteen year old with the fever and abdominal pain?"

"Me," Cameron said. "He's getting worse and quickly. Ultrasound suggested a tumor in the right pararenal space and I need the CT to confirm."

"Right. And whose is the pregnant woman with breathing problems?"

"She's mine." Chase glared at the others defiantly before turning to Cuddy. "It's too sever to just be pregnancy asthma. I want to CT her chest-"

"I get the idea." Cuddy turned to Foreman. "So you have the twenty-two year old male with the fever and confusion, right?"

"And developing muscle rigidity. Could be meningitis or encephalitis, but I need a CT-"

"Ok, I said I get it!" Cuddy shook her head. "Where's House?" Three shrugs and three blank looks were all the reply she got. "Perfect. Well, short of making you play scissors, paper, rock, how do we resolve this?" She looked at them expectantly. When the silence continued and the blank looks threatened to turn into sulks, Cuddy gave in. "Fine, you asked for this. Pregnant woman gets priority – there's two lives at stake there, not just one. Boy with fever's next – his age gets him the sympathy vote. And your guy," she thrust the file at Foreman, "will just have to wait it out." Turning on her heel, she strode away, suspecting she knew where House would hide.

The clinic was never quiet, but at this time of day there were relatively few people waiting. The nurses confirmed her suspicion. House had been in exam room one with a patient since he'd arrived, over an hour ago.

She went straight into the room without bothering to knock; she didn't want to give him the warning. As expected, the patient was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching as House sat on a stool, playing on his Gameboy. She stood over him, not speaking, just glaring.

"You know," he said at last, "this really isn't a spectator sport."

"Really? Well last time I checked, medicine isn't one either. Although your employees looked about ready to start a boxing match in the hall."

"I'd back Cameron. She's probably an eye-gouger."

"What is going on? I can't normally get you to take on one patient at a time, let alone three."

"Well there's four if you count this guy." House nodded to the man perched on the end of the bed. He was small, rat-faced with a pencil-thin moustache and slicked back hair that he may have thought made him look like a Mediterranean stud. Cuddy's personal impression was more of a lecherous Italian waiter, but she gave him her 'Dean of Medicine' smile and nod. The sounds from House's Gameboy suggested something catastrophic had just happened, and Cuddy took the opportunity to pull the toy out of his hands.

"Hey!" House made a swipe for it, but she stepped back out of reach.

"What's going on? Why all the cases?"

"You're upset that I'm treating patients?" House folded his arms and leant back on the chair.

"I'm upset that you have doctors of this hospital arguing in the corridors."

"That's hardly my fault, unless I've set them a bad example by doing whatever's necessary to get the best treatment for my patients."

Changing tack, Cuddy tried to force the annoyance from her voice.

"I know you lost a patient on Sunday-"

"Monday morning, technically. If you're going to show unnecessary sympathy, at least get your facts right."

"But however upset you are, you do not have the right to screw around with other people's cases."

House put his head on one side. "So when I don't take on cases that are referred to me, you come and shout. When I take on cases that haven't been referred to me, you come and shout. When I do take on cases that have been referred to me, you shout. Maybe I should record your next venting session onto tape. Then I could listen to you shout from the comfort of my own home."

"Normally, I'd be in favour of your taking on cases, especially after a patient's death," Cuddy began.

"Work as the antidote to grief? Have you been talking to Wilson? Everyone's so concerned about my mental health all of a sudden."

"It's not all of a sudden, House." Cuddy glanced over her shoulder at the patient, still apparently waiting patiently, giving the occasional sniff. "Treat his cold then go talk to your team. I will not have fighting in the corridors of my hospital."

"It's always worked for us." House stood with surprising speed, reaching out a long arm to pluck the Gameboy from Cuddy's hand. "And this guy does not have a cold."

Both doctors looked at the patient who shifted uneasily under their stares.

"How long have you had these symptoms?" House asked, giving Cuddy an annoyingly knowing grin.

"About three weeks." The man sniffed morosely. "It's not doing much for my image, you know."

"Yeah, the sniffing's the only thing keeping the ladies away." House rolled his eyes. "And how along ago did your girlfriend leave?"

"How did you-" He gave House a frightened look. "About a month."

House turned to Cuddy. "He doesn't have a cold. He does have an ego problem, a really bad mirror and a teeny tiny brain. I'd recommend sterilisation for the sake of the gene pool."

"Hey!"

"Just trying to do future generations a favour. Go home, have a shower and wash that gunk out of your hair. You're using more oil than a Chinese restaurant. The scent of thenew brand of hair gelyou bought to console yourself after your girlfriend did the only sensible thing is giving you hayfever symptoms. And wash your moustache as well. They call it _hair_ gel for a reason."

Out in reception, Cuddy stood over House as he scribbled something – no doubt illegible – on the patient chart and handed it to a nurse.

"My good deed for the day is done. Can I go home now?"

"No." Cuddy followed him to the elevators. "You can go talk to your staff and act like an actual doctor by helping them treat patients."

"How are they supposed to learn if I do everything for them?"

"All you're doing is creating arguments."

"And exactly how is that different to normal? I'm teaching them independence and self-reliance."

"Divide and conquer?"

"Asserting my authority. Think how impressed they'regoing to be when they find out I got there first."

Cuddy stopped short. "You already have a diagnosis and you're letting them fly blind?"

House jabbed at the elevator button in annoyance. "Between the three of them, they have nearly thirty years of medical training. If they can't apply it properly, that's their problem."

"And if the patients die while they're figuring it out? Is that just part of the learning process?"

"Isn't it always? As long as they've got me to fall back on, they're only ever going to do that. And they're still free to do that now. They always think they're right anyway, but this time they get to take responsibility for their actions."

"I can't believe that even you'd rather see the patients suffer than bother to help."

"Every other doctor in the hospital does it." The elevator arrived and House jammed the doors open with his cane, ignoring the annoyance of the other passengers. "Do you know how many cases they send me every day? Dozens of petty little problems, that they could sort out themselves if they just bothered to think." The speed with which House could switch from flippant to intense always startled Cuddy and she found herself momentarily lost for words. When she said nothing, House went on, "They're just scared to do it." House went on. "If I don't, then they have to. If they're not prepared to accept responsibility for people's lives and deaths then they should go back to the farm and leave the medicine to the ones who are up to it."

He stepped into the lift, letting the doors close between them and leaving Cuddy still speechless. After a frozen moment, she swallowed her anger, as she always did, and made her way back to her office. One of House's more annoying talents was to see through things – people, patients, situations – and know exactly which buttons to push. He'd managed to make her see his point of view and even agree with it to a degree, although she'd run through the hospital naked before she admitted that. His latest scheme with his team was typical House – reckless and risky, and ultimately based on an acute understanding of the situation.She just hoped that he was right this time, and that his experiment didn't blow up in any of their faces.

The languages are, in order, Spanish, French, German, Italian, Dutch, Chinese, Japanese, Inuit, Zulu and Arabic


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.  
_Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet

So far, there hadn't been any actual explosions. After seeing the condition of Cameron's patient, Chase had conceded his priority to her and offered to look after Foreman's patient as well while the other two ran the scans. It worked quite smoothly, and they had Foreman's patient in the scanner in record time. Cameron also suggested that they work together on the differentials.

"Isn't that cheating?" Chase had asked.

"This isn't poker," Cameron said. "We're talking about patients' lives. Do you want to take the risk of missing something?"

"Maybe you already have a diagnosis?" Foreman asked.

"House does." Chase sounded sulky.

"You're not House," Cameron pointed out, which had more or less finished the argument there and then.

The boy's tumor had turned out to be a hematoma, and Cameron had already got him started on cefuroxim to get his temperature down. Chase had taken the scans of his patient away for a closer look, leaving Cameron and Foreman to watch the computers as the latter's patient slid into the scanner.

"Do you really think House has the diagnoses?" Foreman asked.

"That's what he said." Cameron kept her eyes on the computer.

"And you believe him?"

"You don't?"

Foreman snorted. "He's good, but not that good. Whatever answers he's got, they're just guesses."

"Well, we'll find out when we go get those envelopes, won't we?"

They sat in silence for a moment, watching and listening to the scanner.

"Do you have a theory yet?" Cameron asked.

"Too early to know. I want to do an LP and repeat the CBC before I make a call."

Cameron picked up the file and began flicking through it. "I wonder what House saw that we don't."

Foreman sighed, settling back in his chair. "It could be severe heatstroke."

"The ER thought heatstroke and sent him home on fluids. That didn't help which is why his friend brought him back."

"So encephalitis is more likely. Maybe herpes simplex."

"Wouldn't explain the muscle rigidity."

"Doesn't have to be herpes, could be another infection. Or it could be a drug reaction."

Cameron ran her eye down the file. "Except that the tox screen was clear." She looked up as the computer beeped. "And no structural lesion."

"It wouldn't have to still be in his system. I need that LP."

"Don't we all?" Cameron followed him out of the observation booth and together they got the patient out of the scanner and into a wheelchair.

Once they had him safely into a bed, they joined Chase in the corridor to compare notes.

"We're going to need LPs to rule out infections," Foreman said. "What did the CTs tell us?"

Cameron gave an ironic half-smile. "That I'm not going to have to see Doctor Wilson. It's a hematoma not a tumor, but as he's hemodynamically stable at the moment I'm going to try to track down the cause, which means getting his temperature down. If the cefuroxim doesn't work, we'll move to gentamycin and hope it buys enough time for a diagnosis." She shrugged. "That's the best I've got right now."

"I want to do a muscle biopsy along with the LP," Foreman said.

"You're thinking malignant hyperthermia?" Cameron asked, frowning. "There's been no operation, no anaesthetics. How can he be having a reaction to a drug he hasn't taken?"

"It could be something we don't know about." Foreman turned to Chase. "What about you?"

"I've had a closer look at the CT. See what you think." He held the black and white pictures up to the light. "I'm starting to think House has got it in for me more than usual."

As the others started to look, there was a shout from behind them.

"Help! She can't breathe!" The husband of Chase's patient was half-standing, clasping his wife's hand and looking helplessly at the doctors and nurses who'd come running at the noise.

"Get him out of here." Chase's voice was firm and calm. He leant over the woman, pushing his stethoscope into his ears and applying the other end to her chest. "Averil, can you hear me? Come on, can you hear me? Damnit." He looked up at the others. "Her right lung's collapsed. We're going to need a chest tube." The last was directed to the nurse, who nodded and hurried to help.

Foreman had already lowered the bed so that it was flat, moving round ready to intubate. Hearing shouting from the doorway, Cameron went to help a nurse who was trying to calm the frantic husband.

"I need to be with her!"

"We need to you to let us do our jobs," Cameron said. "They're looking after your wife."

The man ran his hands through his hair, looking through Cameron rather than at her.

"What about the baby?"

"Let's deal with one thing at a time." Cameron tried to sound soothing, gently herding the man away from the open doorway to the seating area. "Her right lung has collapsed, which is why she couldn't breathe. They're going to drain the air or fluid that's gotten into her lung cavity and give her some help for a while. It's a very standard procedure."

"On a pregnant woman?"

"On everyone." Cameron hesitated over the next question, wanting to know but hating to ask. "How far along is she?"

The man dropped into a chair. "Twenty-six weeks."

Mentally, Cameron made a note. She didn't know the survival rate for babies born at twenty-six weeks off the top of her head, but she knew that while it wasn't good, it wasn't as bad as it could be. She said none of this, however, trying to be a comforting presence. After ten horrendously long minutes, Chase came out to join them.

"Mr Crombie? She's doing much better. We've had to put a tube down her throat to help her breathe for a while until her lung recovers, but you can go in and be with her if you like."

"Thank you." With barely a glance at the two doctors, he hurried towards the room, barging into Foreman who was on his way out.

"What's the real story?" Cameron asked. "What caused the collapse?"

For answer, Chase took the CT scans that Foreman had brought with him and held them up to the light again. "Look here." He traced an outline on one picture, then another. "Thin wall cysts, throughout both lungs."

Foreman whistled under his breath. "That'd do it alright."

"LAM," Chase said. "Unusual without accompanying Tuberous Sclerosis, but the CT along with respiratory problems and pneumothorax is pretty definitive."

Cameron shook her head. "It's also incurable. There are some trials, but no one's going to take on a pregnant woman."

"They might," Chase said, although he sounded doubtful. "There are some studies looking at the association of the two. Anyway, there's nothing more we can do for now. The main thing is to get her as close to term as we can to give the baby the best chance." He glanced over his shoulder. "I don't want to tell them yet – not til she's awake and can understand. Look after these for me?" he asked, passing the scans and file back to Foreman. "I'm going to see House." Without waiting for an answer, Chase strode away down the corridor.

"You think he wants to claim a prize for being first?" Foreman asked.

"Could be." Cameron watched Chase's retreating back.

"That's Chase's second hopeless case in week. You figure he blames House? "

"What did it look like? And LAM doesn't have to be hopeless." Cameron gestured to the scans and file.

Foreman nodded. "I guess. Anyway, we've got our own cases to worry about without taking on Chase's as well, right?"

"Sure." With a last glance after Chase, Cameron turned to follow Foreman.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House wasn't in the diagnostics department, or the cafeteria. Chase tried a few of the departmental lounges without success, eventually ending up outside Wilson's office. House wasn't there but Wilson was, writing up some patient notes.

"Have you seen Doctor House?" Chase asked.

"Not for a couple of hours. He's probably holed up somewhere eating my lunch." Wilson put down his pen. "Is it urgent?"

"Not exactly." Chase took the offered chair. "I've got a diagnosis."

"Already?" Wilson sounded impressed, but Chase just shrugged.

"I guessed that, with House, it was going to be something rare and interesting so I crossed all the obvious stuff off the list. And the CT scan turned out to be the right choice. Lymphangioleiomyomatosis."

Wilson blinked, surprised at the younger man's certainty and the complete lack of emotion with which he'd delivered the answer.

"I'm sorry," he said. "How did she take it?"

"Haven't told them yet." Chase shifted in his chair, as though bracing himself for a scolding. Instead, Wilson just nodded and turned to his bookcase.

"Let's see if House really did get there first," he said, pulling down the first volume of a heavy medical encyclopedia.

"You hid them in there?" Chase asked, his voice somewhere between amusement and admiration.

"Living with House, you learn coping strategies. And one of them is never, ever trust him not to do something he shouldn't." Wilson began flicking pages.

"You filed us? Not under names?"

"Too obvious. Ah, here it is." Wilson pulled the envelope out and turned the book round for Chase to see.

"Under 'A'?"

"For Australian."

"Sneaky."

"When in Rome…" Wilson's smile faded as he opened the envelope.

"And the loser is-" Chase said, leaning forwards to put his face in his hands.

"'Probably LAM,'" Wilson read. "He gives reasons, if you're interested." Without looking up, Chase waved a hand in a 'carry-on' gesture. "'Note family history of emphysema and bronchitis – probably misdiagnosed. Hormonal involvement unproven but suspected, so condition worsened by pregnancy. CT for preliminary diagnosis, lung biopsy for definitive. Consider C-section if condition deteriorates."

"I'd say it's deteriorating. We just had to intubate," Chase explained. "Collapsed lung."

"There's yet more," Wilson told him. "Even on paper he likes the sound of his own voice. 'Patient good candidate for Moorland's drug trial. Get Cuddy to talk to him and tell her to wear one of her usual blouses – Moorland sucker for pretty cleavage.'" He shook his head. "Sometimes I don't know whether it's better to laugh at him or hit him."

Chase looked like he'd choose the latter option right at that moment, while Wilson developed a sudden fascination with the note on his desk, spreading his hands across it to smooth out the creases. Before either of them could speak, there was a knock at the door and House barged in without waiting for an answer.

Taking everything in at a glance, he gave Chase a surprised look.

"You beat the others. Impressive."

"This is just some kind of sick game to you, isn't it?" Chase started to get up, apparently to follow through on one of Wilson's two options, but House waved him back down into the chair.

"Put them back in your pram, no one's interested." Throwing himself on the couch, he gave his subordinate a long hard look. "You're ticked off because you solved the case."

"Are you trying to send me some kind of message? Two dying patients in one week?"

"If I wanted to send you a message I'm more likely to fold it into a paper airplane and throw it at you. And LAM isn't necessarily a death sentence."

"It's not curable either," Chase shot back.

"But it is treatable. And who do you think would be the best choice to look after a patient who's going to need close monitoring, maybe emergency treatment? Sounds pretty intensive to me." House met Chase's steady glare, infuratingly unperturbed. It was an uneven staring match that Chase never stood a chance of winning. Dropping his gaze to the floor, he shook his head.

"You did this them on purpose, didn't you?"

"Did you save her life?"

"This time." Chase looked up, avoiding House's eye and staring out of the window. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Help Foreman and Cameron? Watch over your patient until someone takes her off your hands? Go throw yourself off the roof because the big mean boss man was unfair to you? I really don't care."

Feeling the need to intervene, Wilson started to speak, but was cut off by a sharp look.

"You want to actually practice medicine, be a good doctor? This is what it comes down to," House went on. "Big kicks when it goes right and bigger kicks to the head when it doesn't. Either you're up to it or you're not. Which is it?"

Without looking at either of the others, Chase got out of his chair and crossed to the door.

"I'll ask Cuddy to call Moorland."

"Tell her to go in person. She can't show off her true charms over email."

Chase let the door close behind him.

"Did he seem narked to you?" House asked.

"I'm amazed you noticed." Wilson gestured to the empty salad box in House's hand. "Did you enjoy my lunch?"

"Too much garlic." House tossed the box onto the desk. "So neither of the other two wunderkinder have been by to claim their rewards or cry on your shoulder."

"Not yet, but I've ordered shares in Kleenex just in case. Were you expecting them to?"

"Foreman, no. I thought Cameron might have come, just to get a second opinion."

"When it's yours, apparently she's not interested." Wilson looked down at the piece of paper again. "Did you really have to do that to him?"

"Do what? I could have been wrong and she just had a really bad case of asthma or I could have been wrong and she had lung cancer." House twisted his fingers round the handle of his cane. "You make it sound like I'm deliberately messing with them."

"Aren't you?"

"Why would I?" House turned wide, innocent eyes on his friend, spoiling the effect by twisting his mouth into a self-satisfied smirk. "They hardly need me to make them more screwed up."

"Well, you're the expert on that."

"I like to think so."

"So why are you here?" Wilson leant back in his chair. "You've successfully fobbed off three cases onto people who actually care about them and may even fill out charts properly; you did clinic hours yesterday so you're good with Cuddy until tomorrow when you fail to turn up; you ate my lunch from home so you don't need to eat it off my tray in the cafeteria. And yet you're here?"

House gasped in mock outrage. "Does a guy need a reason to come and see his friend and roommate? Doctor Wilson, I am shocked at your suspicious mind. Why does there have to be an ulterior motive?"

"Because you never do anything without one," Wilson was unmoved by the spluttering coming from across the room. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, he said, "This couldn't possibly have anything to do with a case you mysteriously asked me to take, would it?"

"You ask me to take cases all the time," House protested. "You come to me with those wide pleading eyes and threaten to cry at me until I care. Works for Cameron too. Do you two go to class together?"

"You ask me for consults, true." Bringing his gaze back down, Wilson met House's eye with a directness that made the other man look away. "But usually you don't care what happens after that. What's going on?"

House made no reply. Instead, he got a proper grip on his cane and pushed himself upright.

"Who knows? Anything could be happening. I'm off to find out."

"If you're not going to tell me, I'll just have to ask them," Wilson called after him.

House didn't turn around, but he did pause in the doorway. "That's up to you."

Wilson found himself staring at the closed door for a solid minute after House had left. Then, giving himself a shake, he scooped up some of the patient files from his desk to take back to the wards. As he did so, the piece of paper with the diagnosis of Chase's patient got caught in the updraft and fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, Wilson read it through again, then screwed it up and dropped it into the trash can under his desk. After another moment's thought, he retrieved the two other envelopes from other volumes of the encyclopedia. He didn't kid himself that House wouldn't notice the open volume on his desk and his friend's ability to draw conclusions bordered on the clairvoyant. He'd keep them in his pocket for now, until he came up with another good hiding place.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cameron was taking as many notes as she could, trying to weed out the irrelevant from the informative as her patient's mother detailed his life history. If his mother was to be believed, he'd never had a day's illness in his life, and neither had she, apart from the times they were sick. Once she'd untangled the various childhood bugs and everyday viruses from the information she actually needed, there wasn't much left. Both parents were healthy; the son was healthy until two weeks ago when he went down with what was diagnosed as a nasty cough – not difficult when the patient is coughing constantly – and a stomach ache.

It took Cameron five more minutes with the patient himself to re-diagnose the stomach ache as abdominal pain. The boy was uncomfortable from the fever and restless from having been cooped up in bed and at home for so long. He fidgeted as Cameron tried to talk to him and was as uncommunicative as his mother was garrulous.

"We've been able to establish that it's not a tumor causing the pain-" Cameron began.

"Thank God." The mother clasped her son's hand and gave Cameron a grateful look. "That's good news, isn't it?"

Reluctant to promise anything, Cameron gave a weak smile. "It means it's not cancer. The pain is being caused by a hematoma. It normally follows some kind of internal bleeding, where the blood clots in a space that it shouldn't."

"Internal bleeding?" The mother's face had gone white. "What does that mean?"

"We need to find out what caused it." Cameron held her patience, used to nervous patients interrupting to ask for the answer she had been about to give. "If it's linked to the fever, we need to treat them both together."

"That's what the antibiotics are for, isn't it?"

"That's right." Directing her attention to the boy on the bed, Cameron smiled. "Let us know if anything changes. If you feel worse, better or anything different. We're going to check the fluid we took in the lumbar puncture and see if you have an infection. We're also going to run more blood tests."

"Thank you, Doctor," the mother said, giving her son's hand another squeeze. "We've just been so worried about him and didn't know what we were going to do."

Cameron let the woman ramble for a few a minutes until she felt the neither she nor the boy could take any more, at which point she excused herself politely and went to check on Foreman. Halfway there, she ran into Chase, almost literally. He was stalking down the corridor, his normally placid face pulled into a scowl and eyes fixed on the ground. Cameron caught his arm as he passed.

"Hey! You're going to mow down a patient if you're not careful." Letting go of his arm, she looked up into his face. "Did you see House?"

"Yeah." Chase's expression softened a little around the edges. "I got it right and so did he. He gave it to me on purpose."

Cameron frowned. "What do you mean?"

"She's going to need a lot of care if we're going to get her and the baby anywhere near term." Chase took a step out of a nurse's way, leaning back against the wall of the corridor. "So he gave it to me."

"Because you're the intensivist? There's a weird kind of House logic behind that, I guess."

"That's the worst part. How come he always gets to be right?" Chase gave Cameron a helpless look, then turned his head away, running a hand through his hair. "I need to go tell them."

Cameron stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You didn't do anything wrong. This is not your fault."

"Right." Chase couldn't have sounded less convinced. "It's just because House hates me. I get it." He turned away and set off down the corridor again, leaving Cameron to trail in his wake.

Foreman was writing up notes at the nurse's station when they got there. He glanced up, as they approached.

"She's awake," he said, signing off and passing the records to a nurse. "Did House get it right?"

Chase nodded. "He did. And that's clearly more important than how I'm going to tell a pregnant woman that she has an incurable lung disease."

"One for one, huh?" Catching the look on Chase's face, Foreman wiped the smile off his face. "Sorry. Though even I'm kinda impressed."

"With House or the disease?" Chase shot back.

"Which do you think?" Angry himself now, Foreman's reply was only stalled by Cameron's interruption.

"I don't think this is going to help," she said, to both of them. "Chase, you want me to come with you on this? Chase?"

Chase roused himself from whatever train of thought he'd been following. "What? No, I can handle it. And House said to go talk to Cuddy about getting her on a drugs trial. When you get back to the office, could you write a letter from him recommending her? Just in case we need it."

"Of course," Cameron said. "So where are we?"

"Waiting for test results," Foreman said. "And I want to get a better history. We hardly have anything on the guy's family."

"I've got the opposite," Cameron said. "I can't find the history for all the information the mother gave me. Nothing suggestive that I've noticed, though."

"How's his temperature?" Chase asked.

"Stabilizing, I hope, but it's too early to tell, really."

"Ok, so we concentrate on my guy for now," Foreman said, opening the file. "He was brought in by a friend. I'll talk to him. The patient's fairly out of it at the moment, but we might be able to get something from him. Feel like having a go?" he asked Cameron.

"Sure," she said. "See you guys later."

Chase nodded acknowledgement. He waited as the others left, looking into the room where his patient was lying, her hand enveloped by those of her husband. Some of his anger at House had subsided, leaving an empty, deflated feeling behind. He knew he should go in there, then go talk to Cuddy sooner rather than later, although probably without House's helpful sartorial suggestions. But he stood for a minute or two longer, watching the silent tableau and praying it wouldn't turn into the one from two nights before.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House was also watching and thinking, but he was doing his from the middle of the oncology department. According to Emily, the nurse Wilson talked to, House had arrived half an hour earlier, taken over a sofa in the waiting area and just sat there, staring into space. He didn't seem to have noticed Wilson, who now stood and watched him in turn. House had propped his right leg up on the central coffee table, holding his cane firmly upright against it, apparently as protection from clumsy passers by, but partly, Wilson suspected, to stop anyone from bothering him. House never hesitated to use the cripple card when it suited him.

From his lurking spot in the side corridor, Wilson had a good view of House's profile. His friend's head was bent forwards, eyes focussed on a spot somewhere just beyond his raised foot. He could have been a patient's relative, waiting for bad news, but Wilson knew the expression and it worried him. When House brooded this hard for this long, it generally meant bad news for someone else.

Deciding it had gone on long enough, Wilson began to make his way across the floor, glancing in the direction of House's stare and making the connection.

"You know," he said, standing over his friend, "you're more convincing about not caring when you actually stay away from the people you don't care about."

"This is my new hiding place," House said. "No-one will ever think of looking for me where there are patients."

"And it just happens to be opposite the room of Mrs Pamela Taylor, the patient you referred to me and who you claim not care about."

"You're absolutely right," House said. "It just happens to be like that."

"Are you going to tell me, or do I have to get the thumbscrews?"

House looked up at this. "Come on, we're in a hospital. You can be much more imaginative than that. I'm sure the surgeons could lend you something. They've got drills, chainsaws, all sorts."

"House!" Wilson had had enough of going round in circles, knowing that if House didn't want to give an answer,

there was no way of making him. Instead, Wilson opted for pointed silence, also knowing that, like nature, House abhorred a vacuum. In fact, he'd only reached twelve in his mental count when House stirred himself.

"I should see how the kids are coping without me."

"Probably better than they cope with you. Aren't you going to stop in and say hello to Mrs Taylor?"

"Interfere with one of your patients? Wouldn't dream of it." Tucking a hand under his knee, House pulled his leg off the table and stood up, forcing Wilson to take a step backwards. "See you later."

For the second time that day, Wilson let it go. Short of chasing House round the hospital, there wasn't much else he could do. "Am I cooking tonight?"he asked.

"Well my only speciality's Chinese á la telephone, unless you want peanut butter sandwiches-"

"Alright, I'll pick up groceries on the way home." A flicker of something passed across House's face, then his expression went absolutely blank, eyes dropping to the handle of his cane.

Wilson turned to see what had caused the reaction. The woman who had been approaching them had stopped, staring at them. Wilson also noticed that she had clenched her fists, as though ready to fight them both off. Well, maybe not both of them.

It was House who broke the awkward silence.

"Hello, Carolyn."

"Greg."

Wilson couldn't keep the surprise from his face. The only people who called House 'Greg' were family, lovers or idiots who didn't know any better. Since House didn't even flinch, Wilson crossed the last one off his list. Instead, House leant onto his cane, shoving the other hand into his jacket pocket.

"How are you?" he asked, voice oddly subdued.

"As well as can be expected. Actually, I was looking for Doctor Wilson."

"Then I won't keep you. Say hi to your mom for me." He turned on his heel and, with a glare that killed the question on Wilson's lips, he headed off towards the elevators.

Carolyn ran a hand through her hair.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Wilson, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, it's fine," Wilson assured her. "Anyone who can make House shut up and go away that quickly is always going to be welcome. Do you teach it or is it a family secret?"

It had been a long shot based on instinct rather than fact, but it hit home. Carolyn flushed and half-smiled.

"Takes years of practice and estrangement, I'm afraid. Did Greg tell you?"

Wilson shook his head. "Educated guess. Not many people can get to him. Must have been an impressive estrangement."

"I don't think Greg does anything by halves."

"Not so I've noticed." Not sure how far he could push the subject, Wilson asked gently, "Do you mind my asking what happened?"

"Long story."

"My time is yours."

Angrier women than Carolyn had caved under that tone of voice. She smiled and relaxed a little, shrugging her shoulders.

"Come on," Wilson said. "I'll put a pot of coffee on."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chase never got used to delivering bad news, although Cameron had once suggested that the day he did was the day he should give up the practice of medicine. Under the circumstances, the news had been taken quite well, with the couple listening carefully at first, then tuning out as people always did. There would be more questions later, but Chase wouldn't be the one to answer them. He'd arranged for a pulmonary specialist to take over the case and Cuddy had assured him that she'd do her best with Moorland.

Which left Chase free to help Cameron and Foreman and, as it happened, run into his boss as he got out of the elevator.

"Offloaded your work already?" House asked. "You're learning something after all."

"I picked up the test results for Cameron and Foreman," Chase said defensively. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

Chase glanced at his watch. "It's only 3.45."

"Yeah, but by the time I get to my office, pack up my stuff and get back downstairs it'll be four o'clock."

"Which is an hour earlier than five."

"Last time I checked."

"Cuddy'll-"

"Since when do you care?" House gave his subordinate a curious look. "Aren't you immune to me by now? Didn't I hand out vaccines when you lot were recruited?"

"Aren't you even vaguely interested in how the patients are getting on?"

"Nope." House sidestepped Chase and headed off down the corridor.

"Not even a little?" Chase asked, waving the folder he was holding. "I've got the test results right here."

House stopped, pausing before turning back round. "And?"

"So you are interested?" Chase's expression challenged House to lie.

"Of course I'm interested. Do you think I would have given you cases that were boring? What do the tests say?"

"Come on in and find out." Chase swept past House, heading towards the diagnostics department.

Cameron and Foreman were sitting at the main table, books spread open in front of them. They looked up as Chase came in and Foreman held out a hand expectantly.

"What's it worth?" Chase asked, holding the file against his chest.

"My not telling House about that cute little brunette who gave you the world's best brush-off the other night." Foreman clicked his fingers impatiently, while Chase glanced over his shoulder. Instead of following him into the lounge, House had gone into his own office and, true to his word, was packing his rucksack and pointedly not looking through the glass partition.

"Chase!" Cameron was holding out her hand as well now. Giving in, Chase checked whose was whose and handed them over.

As the others flicked through what he'd already read, Chase went over to the coffee machine. He suspected the others hated the way he made it – too watered down for American tastes – but as Foreman complained about the way everyone made coffee, Cameron was too polite to complain and House was more concerned with the caffeine content than the taste, he figured there was no harm in making it how he liked it. He risked another glance towards House's office, but aside from the still open bag on the desk, there was no sign of the man himself. The door was open, to enable better eavesdropping, no doubt. Assuming Cameron and Foreman ever got around to saying something worth eavesdropping on.

It was Foreman who got to the end first, glancing up at Cameron and raising his eyebrows.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

She shot him an unamused look and laid the file down on the table. "Creatinine's normal, white count's down from two days ago, which is good, but his potassium's way too high, and," she put her finger on a line of text, "he's positive for lupus anticoagulant and anti-cardiolipin antibodies."

"So are about 5 of the healthy population."

"Except he's sick." Cameron leaned over the file again. "He's ANA negative, so it's not lupus. There are all kinds of infections that can cause a positive aPL reading."

"Do you want to borrow my Magic 8 ball?"

They all turned to House who was standing in the doorway of his office, bag slung over one shoulder. "Or maybe write them on little pieces of paper," he went on, "and throw them up in the air. What do you think?"

"I think that unless you've got something actually helpful to say, you should stay out of it." Cameron pointedly looked away, back at the file on the table. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Ooh, touchy." House made his way across the lounge towards the coatstand. "Alternatively, you could start testing him for the infections that cause a positive aPL result. Just a thought. Wouldn't want you to think I'm helping you cheat."

"Cheat? I'm trying to help this kid and you're making it into some stupid game!" Cameron stood up, grabbing the file and holding it out to House. "He's been ill for nearly three weeks now, his fever's barely responding to the antibiotics, he's got a hematoma with no explanation and the blood tests are inconclusive"

House, unfazed by her outburst, took the file and flicked it open. After a moment of tense silence, he raised his eyebrows, snapped it closed again then handed it back to Cameron. "Do you want my opinion or are you going to yell at me again? Because if it's the yelling, I need to put his down so I can put my fingers in my ears." When he got no response, he nodded his head towards the chart and said, "Test him for infections that cause positive aPLs. Start with Hep C, Epstein-barr, Lyme's, the most common pneumonias and the kitchen sink while you're there."

"Are you saying you don't know what it is?" Foreman asked.

"I'm saying she should test him for those infections. And try gentamycin for the fever." House shrugged out of his shirt and reached for his bike jacket. "Don't forget that Wilson's got my second opinion – well technically my first opinion, and as you don't actually seem to have an opinion at all I guess it's first to you too. Anyway, it's there if you want it. What about you?" He turned an inquisitive look on Foreman. "Need any words of wisdom before I ride off into the sunset?"

"I'm sure I'll cope."

"Good." House gave them all an extremely fake smile. "Have a nice night."

Once he was out of sight, Cameron threw the file on the desk and herself into her chair.

"Don't let him get to you," Foreman said. "He's just doing it to get a reaction."

"Yeah? Well it's working." Cameron looked up. "What about your test results?"

"Creatinine's way up, as is the white count. Nothing in the tox screen to suggest drug use. I'm waiting on cultures from the LP."

"Fever, rigidity, confusion," Chase said. "Sounds like meningitis or encephalitis."

"Encephalitis is more likely," Foreman said. "I don't think it's meningitis. Partly because the MRI doesn't confirm it, and partly because of House."

Cameron frowned. "What do you mean? He didn't say anything about your case."

"No, but he's already diagnosed two cases of meningitis in the last forty-eight hours. A third one would just be boring."

"Or the complete set," Chase suggested.

"He's doing this to distract us. Assuming he actually has the diagnosis right, he just wants to keep us occupied and out of his way. He doesn't normally worry about that, which means he's got something else going on that he doesn't want us to know about. And no way meningitis is interesting enough for that."

"Those are awfully big assumptions," Cameron protested. "You can't know any of that."

"Well, it's either that or you've finally wearing him down and guilted him into taking more cases."

The three of them considered this.

"So not meningitis then," Chase said, giving Cameron a knowing look. She nodded in agreement.

"What about the history?" she asked. "Anything helpful?"

"I couldn't get much out him – he's pretty out of it. A neighbor was worried and brought him to the ER. He says there's a girlfriend, but she went to stay with her parents in Philly last night."

"A fight?" Chase asked.

"Apparently not." Foreman consulted the notes again. "The neighbor says she got ill about a month ago. She needed looking after and David, the patient, couldn't take more time off work, so her parents came and got her."

"What did the girlfriend have?"

"Some kind of stomach bug, possibly." Seeing the sceptical looks, Foreman shrugged. "The patient can barely talk, and the neighbor doesn't know him that well. All he knows is that she was throwing up a lot."

"Not much to go on," Chase said.

"No, but since David isn't throwing up, it's probably not the same thing." Foreman closed the file and stood up. "I'm going to run some more gels for infections. Encephalitis is still the most likely at this point." He looked from Chase to Cameron. "Anyone else coming?"

"I'll join you," Cameron said, already heading for the door. "I've got to test for the kitchen sink, remember?"

Foreman turned to Chase. "Are you coming?"

"What for? I already solved my case, didn't I?"

"So you're just going to sit around and do what?" Foreman asked. "Wait for House to come in tomorrow morning and dump another case on you? Just because he gave you an easy one to begin with-"

"What are you trying to say?" Chase narrowed his eyes. "That he gave me an easy one because I'm not as good as the two of you?"

"Foreman didn't say that," Cameron said.

"That's what he meant though, isn't it?" Chase turned on Foreman

"You want to prove me wrong? I'll be in the lab." Foreman brushed past Cameron, who gave Chase a weak smile before following.

Chase spent another two minutes contemplating his coffee before setting the mug down and heading out of the door towards Pathology.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Wilson got home, House was absorbed in painfully loud music, probably his third or fourth album by the looks of the record covers strewn around the apartment. Stretched out on the couch, head back and eyes closed, he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the door in a gesture that might have been a greeting. Or he might just have been conducting the intro to the next verse.

Dumping his briefcase and coat, Wilson turned the stereo down to a bearable volume and took the two bags of groceries into the kitchen. When he re-emerged, House hadn't moved or even opened his eyes.

"You know," House said, still with his eyes closed, "it's rude to stare."

"We can't all live up to your high standards of etiquette." Wilson took the easy chair and continued his steady gaze. He'd had House run away from him twice already today. He wasn't about to give him a third chance.

"Take your time," House said. "I have all night."

"Were you ever going to tell me? You must have known I'd find out."

"Yes, but by then Chase would have returned the banana and removed all trace of the showgirl's presence." House opened his eyes at last, but didn't look at Wilson. "I told you it would be a night to remember. Next time-"

"Oh, stop." Wilson tugged at his tie. "You know full well what I mean." He stopped, waiting for House to look at him. When he didn't, Wilson decided added incentive might be necessary. "You also know that you're not getting any dinner until I get an answer."

"No, I wasn't going to tell you. Happy?"

"Yes, that makes everything great. Why not?"

"Because I knew you'd get like this." House swung his legs off the couch, turning to glare at Wilson. "All caring and interested. Go take it out on them and leave me alone."

"They're your family, House. You're supposed to care."

"I figure you can do enough of that for the both of us. See? Saves me time and effort." House pushed himself off the sofa and headed into the kitchen, not bothering to stop for his cane.

Wilson followed him, leaning against the kitchen doorway and blocking House's way back into the lounge. He didn't say anything, nor was he intimidated by House's scowl, although if House had brought his cane, he might have feared for his shins.

"I can stand here all night," he said. "Can you?"

Swearing under his breath, House retreated, propping himself against the work surface.

"What are you expecting? Tearful confessions aren't really my style."

"I want to know-" Wilson paused, trying to figure out exactly what it was he did want. "Just tell me what happened to make her hate you so much."

"She met me. Can I go now?"

"House."

House gave him a calculating look. "Are you planning on starting cooking any time soon?"

"I'll cook, you talk." Wilson straightened up from the doorway and began poking through the grocery bags, stopping to give House an expectant look. Getting the message, House sighed and pushed himself up onto the counter top, hands fiddling with a bag of Steve's food.

"I last saw her," he said at last, "at that God-awful barbecue Mom threw for their anniversary."

Wilson paused in the middle of assembling ingredients. "Wasn't that the one where…"

"The same."

"I seem to remember that it was you who did the throwing."

"Whatever. We fought. Impressively, even by my high standards."

Wilson remembered the fall-out from that party. Stacy had driven House back to Princeton, packed her bags and moved out even faster than she'd moved in. The whole story was something House had always refused to be drawn on, but Wilson had always assumed that his friend had finally said or done something unforgivable. And not just to Stacy, by the sound of it.

"What was the fight about?"

"Can't even remember now."

However much he doubted the statement, Wilson decided not to push. He hadn't been able to get much more detail out of Carolyn, except for a strong dislike of her cousin. Instead, he asked, "What happened to Carolyn's father?" he asked instead. "I'm assuming from the name they're related on your mom's side."

"Dad's actually. Aunt Pamela changed her name back after the divorce."

"I didn't know your dad had a brother."

"I didn't know you did, remember? Guess we're even." House waved the bag of rodent foodin Wilson's general direction. "Less talking, more cooking."

Wilson paused, onion in one hand, knife in the other. "The weird thing is, she really doesn't like you – and I mean really doesn't – and then she sends you her mother's file and begs for your help."

"Because she's not an idiot, unlike the previous eight doctors she'd sent her mother to."

"Hates you but respects you. Or at least your medical abilities. Which is a sign of a reasonable, sane person. Are you sure you two are related?"

House stuck out his tongue as a witty rejoinder and eased himself down from the counter.

"If you're going to be like that-"

"You'll what? Refuse to eat my cooking?" Wilson threw the onion in the pan and raised an eyebrow at House.

"You're the one sleeping on a borrowed sofa," House shot over his shoulder as he left the kitchen. "Privileges can be withdrawn, you know."

Giving in, Wilson turned back to the stove, prodding the onion and trying not to sigh.


End file.
